


Rushsong's Discontent: An Original Warriors Super Edition

by boatkaptain



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Gen, may or may not add as posting continues??? idk man this is new to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatkaptain/pseuds/boatkaptain
Summary: Famine wreaks havoc on the cat clans of the forest as a seemingly-endless drought kills prey, dries up water sources, and turns herbs and foliage brittle. ThunderClan's take-no-prisoners deputy, Rushsong, is forced to choose between the Warrior Code and the will of StarClan themselves as he uncovers more and more horrific secrets being kept from he and the other clans...
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yall idk what the fuck im doing. this is just writing practice to keep me fresh for my thesis honestly so dont be surprised if it ends somewhere in the middle but i WILL try to finish it cuz i really like the story, genuinely. just uh. bear with me? i guess?

Moonlight swept stilly over the forest, its creamy light falling in the form of hazy fog. Far, far below sat a tomcat with heavy ginger paws tucked neatly beneath him, guarding the thorny entrance to his camp into the wee, starless hours of night.

“Rushsong.” A panicked whisper sounded from a nest of brambles nearby; the tom’s head whipped around to face the ThunderClan nursery. “Rushsong!”

Two bright blue eyes gazed from the gloom of the muggy night. Rushsong hurried over.

“You’ll wake Nettleflight, Thrushwing,” the tom gently chastised, gazing down at the pale tabby she-cat cowering beneath his stocky frame. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s just it.” Thrushwing’s voice sounded near to breaking. “I startled awake to hear her kits mewling, and--she’s gone cold, Rushsong.”

Rushsong’s steely gaze minutely softened, feeling a pang of sympathy for the one remaining nursery queen. “I see,” he muttered. Indeed, the cool, foreign scent of death drifted from the bramble shelter. “Get back to Sandkit. I’ll move her into the clearing.”

“What about Fernkit and Frostkit?” Thrushwing pled, hurrying back into the nursery and only glancing over a shoulder to check that Rushsong was following.

When Rushsong did not reply, the she-cat paused among the brambles.

“You’ve hardly enough milk to spare for Sandkit,” Rushsong murmured, gazing solemnly down at his paws. “Fleetstar and I will… we’ll see to them at dawn.”

Thrushwing’s fur prickled with visible despair, but she nodded, creeping into the dark of the nursery.

Nettleflight’s body, hardly a pile of bones wrapped in dull gray fur, lay peacefully in the moss adjacent to Thrushwing’s nest and sleeping kit; beside the dead queen’s belly lay her weakly-mewling children, their distended stomachs hollow of milk. Even if Rushsong and Fleetstar didn’t put the pair out of their misery, it would be a mere sunrise or two before they starved to death.

“Lift her up by the scruff,” Rushsong instructed Thrushwing. “I’ll wedge my shoulders underneath her and carry her out.”

Thrushwing complied, grunting with the labor of lifting her denmate--though Nettleflight was as light as a pine branch, Thrushwing wasn’t much better off. Rushsong got ahold of the body and silently eased himself and his burden from the nursery, padding across camp to the dusty earth beneath the Highrock. He lay Nettlewing’s body down and gazed at it for a somber moment before returning to the nursery, sitting in the threshold.

“I’ll stay up and sit vigil for her until the clan awakens,” the tom murmured to Thrushwing, who gazed at him with tired eyes.

She didn’t respond right away. “To think, if it were me, you and Fleetstar would’ve had to kill Sandkit,” the queen eventually rasped.

Before Rushsong could reply--perhaps simply draw a comforting lick over Thrushwing’s ears--the kit in question stirred against her mother, green eyes pricking open as she mumbled sleepy musings from her little jaws.

“Who’s going to kill me?” she mumbled. “I hope it’s not you, Rushsong. Like you’d stand a--” the kit’s mouth parted in a yawn-- “chance.”

Rushsong would typically have purred at the kit’s attitude, but he could only manage a smirk tonight. “Not if your mother can help it, no.”

Sandkit turned to Thrushwing. “What’s going on, Mama? It’s still dark outside.”

Thrushwing gave Rushsong a desperate look. He nodded once, slowly, and Thrushwing sighed.

“Nettleflight’s gone to join StarClan, Sandkit.”

Sandkit’s silver-and-cream face twisted in incredulity. “Hasn’t StarClan had enough ThunderClan cats? It was only a few sunrises ago they took Shadowkit.”

Nettleflight’s third newborn, and Frostkit and Fernkit’s littermate. Silently, Rushsong thanked StarClan for doing the job he and Fleetstar would have had to.

Rushsong flicked his ears to clear his thoughts. He stood, padded from the nursery, sending a quiet call over his shoulder. “Get some sleep, you two.”

“Thank you, Rushsong,” Thrushwing murmured.

The heavyset ginger tom padded back out into the clearing, paws stonelike in his exhaustion. It seemed there was always some new dreadful task plaguing the ThunderClan deputy: culling the clan of forsaken kits, sneaking to the Riverclan border by night in the hopes of catching fish, forcing yarrow down the throats of his clanmates when they turned desperately to crowfood in their hunger.

Rushsong fell to a crouch beside Nettleflight’s body, pressing his nose briefly and impersonally against her flank. It seemed as though even clanmates resented one another nowadays, with all the death and ethical decline. The forest had never seen such drought: fires regularly filled the air with smoke, leaving the woods of ThunderClan’s territory barren even in this, the heart of greenleaf; when there was prey to be found, it was usually dead, buzzing with flies and reeking of the unforgiving sun. Even the river had waned to a muddy slough, drinkable at the risk of bellyache. As sleep came to claim ThunderClan’s weary deputy, he caught himself wondering whether it was the fate of all the forest cats to perish slowly, hungrily, and baked in the sun like the very prey they’d once hunted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently i am still On My Bullshit. warning for two kit deaths in this chapter!

Rushsong awoke to a paw prodding his side. As his eyes flickered open, crusted over with dry, spiky mucus, he saw that the sun had just barely begun to peek over the horizon. Another hot day lay ahead.

“Wake up, my friend. The clan will be out of their dens any moment now.”

Rushsong looked up to meet gazes with Fleetstar, a brown-and-white tabby and leader of ThunderClan. Even before that, she and Rushsong had trained together, being given their warrior names in the same ceremony many seasons ago. Fleetstar had been Fleetbranch then, and, while the famine weighed heavy on all friendships, Rushsong could still seek comfort in his old friend’s company. “Fine way to start the day, isn’t it?”

Fleetstar sniffed in dark concurrence. “Come. Let’s fetch Fernkit and Frostkit before Thrushwing wakes up.”

“Shame Sandkit’s going to lose her only remaining playmates,” Rushsong muttered, standing and indulging in a stretch before following Fleetstar towards the nursery. Thrushwing’s litter of six had waned to a mere one over the course of the drought: Sandkit, a fiery dilute tortoiseshell named for the patches of tan fur hiding amongst her gray.

“She’ll be an apprentice next moon. She can play all she likes with Ruddypaw and Bluepaw then.”

“Like those two would ever endure the indignity of  _ playing!” _ Rushsong joked. Though his words yielded a purr of laughter from his leader, they held truth: Ruddypaw and Bluepaw, still young, seemed to believe it was their duty alone to preserve the future of ThunderClan. “Those two take their duties as seriously as any warrior.”

“Certainly more seriously than you or I ever took ours,” Fleetstar agreed, “and look at us now.”

“Leader and deputy of a dying clan,” Rushsong deadpanned.

Fleetstar placed a paw over her lips for silence before stepping into the nursery, and Rushsong followed, watching as the brown-and-white tabby clasped her teeth around Fernkit’s scruff and carried the little black kit out into the clearing. Rushsong followed with Frostkit, deaf to the pathetic cries he’d shortly silence. They carried the kits through the dirtplace tunnel behind the nursery and veered off into the forest, finding the same silent spot of moss and twisting roots they’d done this duty more than once before.

Too young to scamper off, Rushsong and Fleetstar didn’t bother pinning Fernkit and Frostkit down with their paws. Fleetstar simply tipped her head up to the morning sky, and murmured: “StarClan forgive us for the cruel mercy of cutting these kits’ lives short. We pray you receive them with the utmost warmth and honor.”

Then she nodded to Rushsong, and the pair drew their paws swiftly down upon the mewling kits’ heads, breaking their necks as if they were nothing more than plump mice.

Rushsong yawned, drew his tongue over his fangs before picking Frostkit’s body up by the scruff once more and joining Fleetstar in carrying he and his dead littermate back to camp. When they arrived back in the clearing, they lay the kits’ bodies gently down at Nettleflight’s belly, gazing at the morbid sight for a silent moment.

“Speaking of Sandkit nearing her apprenticeship,” Rushsong spoke up, “have you any cat in mind for her mentor?”

Fleetstar shot him an amused look. “Subtle, Rushsong. There’s no question that she thinks of you as highly as a LionClan warrior.”

Rushsong couldn’t stifle a small purr.

“Of course I’ll choose you, if you’ll have her. I think she could become a fierce fighter.”

“Without a doubt,” Rushsong agreed. “If nothing else, she’s certainly got a fierce sense of humor about my tail.” The ginger warrior glanced over his shoulder at his stump of a tail, an embarassing defect he’d carried since his birth. He made up for its meagerness in calculating fighting skill, becoming ThunderClan’s most valuable warrior and Fleetstar’s veritable personal guard.

“Pouncing on that puny thing will give her excellent fighting skills,” Fleetstar stated, and Rushsong batted her over the ears with a sheathed paw, laughing. He only silenced himself as the first signs of clan life began to tick ahead with the rising sun: the cats Rushsong had chosen the night before for the dawn patrol emerged from the warriors’ den, shaking their loose pelts and giving themselves some hasty licks. Woodpeckerpelt, Flamespring, and Ruddypaw--all three hurried dutifully towards Rushsong before their eyes came to rest on Nettleflight, Frostkit, and Fernkit, and they halted.

“May as well quit prolonging the inevitable,” Fleetstar murmured into Rushsong’s ear. The she-cat pounced gracefully up to the Highrock, and gave the summons for ThunderClan to awaken and gather. Rushsong nodded to his patrol, leaving them by the bodies to take his seat beneath the Highrock and wait for the rest of the clan to arrive.

Rushsong’s gaze swept over his clanmates: warriors once grand and proud of their shining pelts, dappled and striped to perfectly hide in the sunlit woods. Now they looked ragged and worn, faces sunken with sickness and sadness, pelts hanging off their frames. Rushsong fidgeted.  _ StarClan, implore Fleetstar to keep this short. I’ve got to get a hunting patrol out before these cats get any thinner. _

“Cats of ThunderClan,” Fleetstar began, voice steady, “Nettleflight and the remaining two kits of her litter, Fernpaw and Frostpaw, died last night while we slept.”

Rushsong listened as a murmur of mourning swept through the clan. At the first death caused by this famine, all his clanmates had been wracked with the expected sorrow--but now they only weakly accepted the mercilessness with which StarClan took their kin and friends from them.

Fleetstar’s eyes narrowed. “In this heat, I suspect you’ll all understand us not wanting to keep Nettleflight, Fernpaw, and Frostpaw out in the clearing until next sunrise. As such, I ask each cat to pay their respects with haste before the elders and I take the bodies out into the woods for burial.”

Rushsong startled. Leaders didn’t accompany their elders to the burial of clanmates; it was tradition for the clan’s senior members to take on the task themselves. Even if there were only two elders remaining--Flytail and Sapnose--the pair should be able to complete the burial with little trouble, digging in the dusty, dry earth behind ThunderClan’s camp. But no other cat seemed offput by Fleetstar’s statement; they only gave understanding meows and nods at the request for Nettleflight’s vigil to be kept short. Only Graymoss, the father of Nettleflight’s kits, looked distraught by the notion.

“Nettleflight will remain in the clearing until Rushsong’s dawn patrol and the day’s first hunting patrol return to camp. Rushsong?” Fleetstar looked expectantly down at him, and the deputy met her gaze with a nod before turning back to his clan.

“I’d like a few cats to try hunting at Snakerocks,” Rushsong stated, blue eyes surfing over a sea of hungry faces. “There may be adders and other cold-blooded prey out sunning themselves. Aspenfur, Skystripe, Darksky, Heatherfoot--are you willing?”

All four warriors nodded. They were some of ThunderClan’s keenest hunters, not to mention skilled fighters in case ShadowClan strayed over their border in search of snakes.

“Shouldn’t I go along, too?”

Bluepaw, Darksky’s apprentice. Rushsong stared gently at the blue-gray she-cat. “I’d rather not send apprentices to Snakerocks, if I can help it. I'll place you on the sunhigh patrol.”

Bluepaw nodded.

“If that’s all settled, then--” Fleetstar leapt down from the Highrock, landing beside Rushsong--“carry on with your duties, clanmates. Nettleflight wouldn’t want us to waste time mourning when we could be keeping ThunderClan strong.”

“Like you’d know,” Rushsong heard Graymoss mutter. The deputy stalked up to the silver tabby warrior, neck fur bristling.

“Show some respect for your leader,” he hissed.

“Rushsong,” Fleetstar commanded, “leave it be.”

With a final furious twitch of his ears, Rushsong returned to Fleetstar’s side.

“The last thing we need is dissent within the clan. He’s only grieving; he’ll be back to his old self soon enough,” Fleetstar told her deputy.

“Dissent can start with the smallest of rebellions,” Rushsong muttered.

Fleetstar snorted, flicked the ginger tom with her tail. “Get on with your dawn patrol. They’re all waiting for you.”

Rushsong looked on: Woodpeckerpelt, Flamespring, and Ruddypaw all sat waiting for Rushsong to lead them out into the territory.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, trotting over. “We’ll start with the RiverClan border to check that water’s still flowing.”

His warriors followed him quietly, mouths cracked agape to taste the scents of the brittle woods.

“Perhaps we should have asked Tangletoes and Whitepaw if they needed herbs,” gentle Ruddypaw mewed.  _ Mouse dung! _ The apprentice was probably right, but greenleaf growth had been drastically upset by the drought.

“There won’t be much growing in the spots the rest of us know,” Rushsong replied, not turning back. “I’ll accompany them if they need to make a trip out later.”

Flamespring let out a sudden gasp, and the other three cats looked back at him in surprise as he fell into a trembling hunter’s crouch before shooting into a bush of brambles. When he popped back out, thorn scrapes decorating his muzzle, a skinny brown snake hung limp in his jaws.

“StarClan bless you, Flamespring!” Woodpeckerpelt purred, bumping the ginger warrior with his muzzle. Ruddypaw looked fiercely proud of his mentor, and Rushsong nodded his approval. It felt as though it had been days since some cat had caught more than a few grasshoppers.

“Come on, dig in. Hopefully the hunting patrol’s sharing in our luck,” Woodpeckerpelt mewed. All four toms tucked into the snake, tearing small, stringy bites of meat and scales in turn. Rushsong didn’t much like cold-blooded prey, but in the moment, Flamespring’s snake tasted like the finest, fattest meal he’d eaten in a moon.

Once the snake’s long skeleton had been picked clean, Rushsong led the patrol on towards Sunningrocks and the low, mucky river. It reeked of algae growth in its slow meander; Rushsong saw no fish, but gnats and wasps swarmed the stinking mud. Rushsong warned his patrol to keep away from the black and yellow bugs.

“How’s the prey running over in ThunderClan, Rushsong?”

Rushsong’s fur bristled as his gaze shot up to spot a RiverClan patrol across the banks. Drizzlewhisker, the clan’s dark grey deputy, led Pheasantfur, Moonwhisper, and Daybreak, three formidable RiverClan warriors.  _ Stupid fox-face must’ve been hoping he’d run into a ThunderClan patrol just to show off. _ To Rushsong’s immense satisfaction, though, the RiverClan cats’ pelts had lost their sheen, and they looked as emaciated as any other cat in the forest.

“Perfectly well, all things considered,” Rushsong rasped before any member of his patrol could confess otherwise.

Drizzlewhisker’s ear flicked. “Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to hearing what’s got you eating so well at the Gathering a few sunsets from now.”

“Kittypet food from the Twolegplace on their border, no doubt,” Daybreak murmured, just loud enough for the ThunderClan cats to hear.

“Why don’t you come to our side of the river and say that again?” Rushsong snarled at the calico, short tail switching furiously. “But I suppose a stuck-up RiverClan cat like you’d be loath to get her paws muddy.”

“Better yet, I’ll paint them red with your blood,” Daybreak hissed back.

Just before Rushsong could leap into the river and claw the stupid fish breath’s fur off, Woodpeckerpelt and Flamespring leaped into his way.

“Don’t, Rushsong,” Woodpeckerpelt growled. “Fleetstar would be furious with you for crossing the border just to pick a petty fight.”

“We can’t have you injured or killed when the clan needs you as badly as it does these days,” Flamespring agreed, a bit more diplomatically.

“And Fleetstar needs your help just as badly as the rest of us,” Ruddypaw put in shyly. “No warrior could replace you.”

Rushsong blazed hot with frustration and embarassment, feeling the RiverClan patrol’s eyes on him while his warriors talked him down. He knew they were right, but that didn’t stop him wishing he could bat all their ears in for making such a mouse-brain of him.

“Tell Goldenstar to put a little more work into teaching her warriors manners,” Rushsong finally spat to the pompous cats over the river. “ThunderClan will never go hungry enough to take food from Twolegs. We’d sooner die,” he finished, licking spittle from his chops. He turned to his patrol and jerked his head, leading them back into the woods and deeper into ThunderClan’s territory.

“I’ll pass on the message,” Drizzlewhisker called after them. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to take it up with Fleetstar at the gathering.”

With the RiverClan patrol left far behind, Ruddypaw let out a little hiss. “I hope Daybreak chokes on a minnow. How dare she threaten ThunderClan’s deputy like that?”

“She’s nothing I can’t handle,” Rushsong snorted. “None of those RiverClan slugs are. Did you see how underfed they were?”

“I didn’t see any fish in the river,” Flamespring muttered. “I wonder what they’re eating.”

“Probably bugs like us,” Woodpeckerpelt sighed. “It’s humiliating. Cats weren’t meant to crunch on beetles.”

“Nor bat moths from the sky,” Ruddypaw said. “I even saw Flytail trying to pull a spider from its web yesterday!” The dark ginger apprentice shuddered. “I wouldn’t eat a spider if it were the last living thing in the forest. Far too many legs.”

“Now’s no time to be picky,” Rushsong shrugged. “Come on. Let’s see to WindClan and ShadowClan aren’t strolling along our scent markers looking for a fight, either.”

“For their sake and ours, I hope not,” Woopeckerpelt sighed, eyes rolling up to the canopy above. Rushsong ignored the young warrior, chin held high as he strode on through their brittle territory.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: im not gonna feature a romance w the main character, even if it's just a tiny side plot  
> also me: but what if there was gay cats

By sunhigh, Rushsong had met with the morning hunting patrol and saw another out, as well as the sunhigh patrol: Raincloud, Graymoss, and Bluepaw on the former; Flamespring, Ruddypaw, and Aspenfur on the latter. Rushsong cursed the clan’s dip in population--his warriors were all stretched thin, and if this went on, they’d have to start recruiting queens, elders and medicine cats for work outside the camp.

Rushsong’s ear twitched.  _ That’s not a bad idea. _

He stood, making for the little grove of yellowed ferns that led to the ThunderClan medicine cat’s den, when a sharp voice made his ears flatten against the back of his head.  _ Fleetstar! _

Rushsong turned slowly over one shoulder, stumpy tail thrashing. “Yes?”

The brown-and-white tabby was striding over from her den beneath the Highrock with a purpose. She didn’t look pleased.

“Why is it that I had to hear from Woodpeckerpelt that your dawn patrol nearly got into a skirmish with RiverClan and not  _ you, _ Rushsong?”

“It’s not as though there was much to report,” Rushsong muttered, reminding himself to put a thorn in Woodpeckerpelt’s bedding tonight. “Perhaps if there had actually  _ been _ a skirmish, I’d have seen fit to report it.”

“Clans are getting into battles over shed whiskers these days,” Fleetstar hissed. “I chose you as my deputy to help keep this clan in line, Rushsong. Would you trust Woodpeckerpelt, Flamespring, and Ruddypaw to win you a fight?”

“You know I could’ve torn those fish-faced mouse brains ear from tail with or without my clanmates’ help,” Rushsong snarled. “And don’t you doubt my apprentice’s skill. I passed everything I knew of being a warrior onto Woodpeckerpelt; it's not my fault he's become such a mouse in his warriorship.”

“Including loyalty to his leader,” Fleetstar said, unimpressed. “Let’s not quarrel, Rushsong. I don’t want fighting outside of my clan, and I certainly don’t want any inside, either.”

Rushsong was tempted to retort, but he knew all would be well again between he and his friend if he only shut his mouth. Sighing, he sat back on his haunches, flattening his fur. “Ruddypaw caught a snake,” he said.

“Flamespring told me,” Fleetstar purred. “If I could only promote he and Bluepaw to warriors already, I would. StarClan knows we could use them.”

“I can discuss accelerating their training with their mentors,” Rushsong suggested.

“Perhaps. We can’t push it.”

“Not to mention we’ll have another apprentice soon.”

“And no kits in the nursery after that,” Fleetstar frowned. “Can’t you pick some nice she-cat to sire kits for already? ThunderClan’s dying out like white-pelted cats in the woods.”

Rushsong let out a great laugh. “As if any she-cat in ThunderClan would have me. And anyways, Heatherfoot and Raincloud have been getting awfully close, if you haven’t noticed. Its only a matter of time.”

“Thank StarClan. You’d think we were a posse of medicine cats this season.”

Rushsong laughed again. “Maybe I’ll try my paw at wooing some cat. I just hope you don’t expect me to play much role as a father.”

“I never would.” Fleetstar rolled her eyes. “Speaking of wooed cats, you were on your way to see Tangletoes, weren’t you? I’d like to discuss a trip to the Moonstone with him.”

As the padded towards the medicine cat den side-by-side, argument forgotten, Rushsong twitched his whiskers with interest. “A trip to the Moonstone, eh?”

“Nothing interesting. Any cat could see I’m in need of some guidance,” Fleetstar said, a bit glumly.

“And the other leaders aren’t? I wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into all three of them on your way.”

Fleetstar snorted. “Lichenstar wouldn’t admit to weakness even to his own deputy. To  _ himself. _ As far as he’s concerned, creeks are still running clear on WindClan territory, and rabbits multiplying like… well, rabbits.”

“Lichenstar may as well not believe in StarClan for all his supposed self-sufficiency. Don’t hold to his standard.”

The pair halted before the entrance to the medicine cats’ fern tunnel. Just as Fleetstar opened her jaws to call out, a fluffy white she-cat nearly crashed into their forelegs.

“Whitepaw,” Fleetstar calmly greeted her.

“Hi, Fleetstar, Rushsong. Need something?”

Fleetstar’s whiskers twitched with humor. “Can’t a warrior pay a visit to her kin every once in a while?”

“Oh, sure.” Whitepaw sounded slightly disinterested, as if she’d been looking forward to pulling a thorn out of the clan leader’s paw. Over her shoulder, she called: “Tangletoes, Fleetstar’s here to see you!”

“She can wait,” a nasal voice called back. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

Whitepaw and Fleetstar exchanged a shy glance before Whitepaw added, “Rushsong’s here, too.”

A frazzled brown-and-white tabby lump burst from the fern tunnel, green eyes searching wildly before they landed on the leader and deputy.

“Rushsong!” Tangletoes mewed. “A-and, uh, Fleetstar. Is everything alright? Do you need herbs? Uh, poppy seeds? Something of that n-nature?”

So named for the extra toes that gave his forepaws a lumpy, clumsy look, Tangletoes suited his name and mutated feet amusingly well.

Rushsong glared fiercely at Whitepaw before turning back to the medicine cat with a good-natured sigh. “Hello, Tangletoes. How’s the marigold running?”

Tangletoes blinked. “How’s the…” The tom’s eyes widened, suddenly, and he beamed up at Rushsong. “Oh, you mean--y-you mean, like, ‘how’s the prey running,’ but--but marigold, because I’m a--I’m a medicine cat! Oh!” Tangletoes purred exuberantly. Rushsong tried not to notice Fleetstar and Whitepaw’s amused gazes.

“What am I, crowfood?” Fleetstar interrupted, tail thrashing jokingly over the medicine cat’s flank. “Don’t you care about me any bit more than my rock-headed deputy?”

“I had more than enough time to care about you in our mother’s belly,” Tangletoes retorted, touching his nose to Fleetstar’s affectionately. “What can I do for you two?”

“I’d like to travel to the Moonstone as soon as possible. Tomorrow night, maybe.”

Tangletoes startled. “You can’t go tomorrow night; the gathering’s the night after. Even if you  _ do _ make it back in time without any hiccups along the way, you’ll be asleep on your paws all the way to Fourtrees. Save it for after the full moon, Fleetstar.”

The tabby she-cat flattened her ears silently. Rushsong waited for her to argue, or perhaps agree, but when she said nothing, he opened his jaws.

“We could make it if you and I went together, Fleetstar. Maybe even make it back by sunhigh the day of the gathering.”

Tangletoes looked distraught; Fleetstar’s eyes glowed with promise.

“Still got enough kithood energy in you to run it?” she asked.

“Oh, Fleetstar, don’t--”

“Always,” Rushsong rasped. Already his belly buzzed with anticipation--how wonderful it would feel to escape the stale air of the forest and race to Highstones!

“You’ll be leaving ThunderClan without a leader or deputy!” Tangletoes hissed, eyes flicking between the two. “What if WindClan sees you crossing their territory together and tries to attack camp while we’re at our weakest?”

Rushsong bristled. “I wouldn’t put it past the frail cowards to try it,” he agreed reluctantly, “but some cat’s got to speak to StarClan before we all starve to death, and if you’re not receiving any prophecies…”

Tangletoes looked bitterly down at his paws. Rushsong couldn’t help feeling a small pang of guilt, but he pushed it aside.

“If you must go, at least take a different warrior with you,” Whitepaw softly pled. “We need you here, Rushsong.”

“You’ll be fine,” the ginger warrior assured her, lifting himself to his paws.  _ Enough sitting around listening to this whining.  _ Looking to Fleetstar for approval, he went on, “I’ll put Turtletooth and Raincloud in charge; those two are seasons older than the both of us. We’ll be back before you notice our absence.”

“ThunderClan noticing your absence doesn’t worry me,” Tangletoes muttered, “it’s whether WindClan does.”

Fleetstar dismissed her brother with a flick of her tail; Rushsong padded awkwardly over to brush his muzzle between the medicine cat’s ears. “It’ll be fine,” he said.

Fleetstar was waiting for him beyond the tunnel’s entrance. With a meow of goodbye to Tangletoes and Whitepaw, Rushsong trotted to catch up with his leader. His ears went hot when she fixed him with a mischievous gaze, whiskers trembling.

“Don’t,” Rushsong spat.

“He’s got bees in his brain for you,” Fleetstar laughed, evidently delighted.

“Your brother having bees in his brain for me doesn’t exactly promise the furthering of Thunderclan’s descendancy. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Fleetstar, but Tangletoes is a  _ tom. _ ”

“No cat ever said taking a mate means you can’t have a little fun on the way!” Fleetstar purred.

Rushsong let out a groan.  _ I can’t bear this sappy stuff! _ Without another word, he bounded off in the direction of the fresh-kill pile, where a few of his warriors were sleepily grooming their matted fur and carefully sharing a mere two pieces of prey: an unappealingly warty toad, and a ratty gray squirrel. Rushsong ignored the rumbling of his belly and peered around until his gaze landed on the long gray-and-white pelt of Raincloud sharing tongues with his sweetheart, Heatherfoot.

The tom looked up as Rushsong approached, blue eyes kind and gentle.

“Rushsong,” he greeted the deputy. “Need another hunting patrol? I’ll be happy to take one out once Heatherfoot and I have--”

“No, Raincloud. You’ve been more than enough help,” Rushsong answered kindly. “Fleetstar and I need a favor.”

Raincloud and Heatherfoot exchanged a look, and Raincloud stood, followed Rushsong over to the privacy of the nettle patch.

“What is it?”

Rushsong sat back on his haunches. “Fleetstar and I will be travelling to Highstones at dawn tomorrow,” he said, acknowledging the glimmer of significance that appeared in Raincloud’s eyes. “We’d like you and Turtletooth to take on leadership duties while we’re away.”

Raincloud, StarClan bless him, didn’t question Rushsong like Tangletoes and Whitepaw had. “Of course, Rushsong. I’d be honored to help.”

“I’ll let you sort distribution of duties out for yourselves,” Rushsong went on, “but as a start, you’ll have to organize at least a few hunting patrols in addition to the usual border checks. Assignment of night watch duty, so on. Make it easy on yourselves and keep Bluepaw and Ruddypaw with their mentors.”  _ That’s right, I’ve got to talk to Flamespring and Nightsky about accelerating their training. We’ve hardly got enough warriors for regular patrols without wearing every cat’s paw pads off! _

Raincloud nodded through all of this, fluffy tail swishing excitedly. No cat had opposed Rushsong’s promotion to deputy the instant Fleetstar became leader a few seasons back, considering the pair’s inseparable friendship, but there were still senior warriors in the clan who unquestionably craved the position of honor and power. Raincloud, in Rushsong’s opinion, wouldn’t have made a particularly intimidating clan authority: he was terribly passive, burdened by his kindness and mercy. But his experience was valuable, and it only needed to be paired with ferocity to truly shine.

_ Speaking of… _

“Badger tail!” A brash voice called out. Rushsong let out a sigh and looked towards the warriors’ den, where a muted tortoiseshell tabby she-cat was squeezing out between the brambles, shaking post-nap moss from her fur. “Fleetstar poked her head in to tell me you were after me. What gives?”

“Pleasant dreams, Turtletooth?” Rushsong asked frostily as the she-cat padded up and nudged Raincloud with her shoulder in greeting. “I was just telling Raincloud I’d like you two to take care of ThunderClan when Fleetstar and I travel to Highstones tomorrow.”

“Cutting it awful close to the gathering,” Turtletooth commented, scratching her ear with a hind paw. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.”

With a curt nod, Rushsong left the pair to go about their duties, wondering if he could scrounge up some of his own. Only then did the deputy halt and remember why he’d planned on visiting the medicine cats’ den in the first place, well before Fleetstar had expressed her desire to travel to the Moonstone.

_ I was supposed to escort Tangletoes out to collect herbs! Mouse dung!  _ The tom thought, feeling his muzzle go hot under his ginger fur.  _ The last thing I need is time alone with that cat. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an exploration of kitty pseudo-science based vaguely on archaic concepts of anatomy and illness? in MY gay communist warrior cats fic? it's more likely than you think
> 
> also, now seems like as good a time as any to mention that this fic is not being beta'd. not even by me, really. i just shit all over my computer and whatever happens happens

Rushsong passed by Fleetstar and the elders, Sapnose and Flytail, lifting Nettleflight’s body out of camp on his way back to the medicine cats’ den.

“Where are you off to?” The leader asked him as he padded forth.

Internally, Rushsong groaned, hid his face in his paws. Externally, he revealed nothing--or so he hoped, at least. “Ruddypaw suggested we take Tangletoes and Whitepaw out to collect herbs earlier. I figured I’d take one of them now, if they’re free.”

“Here’s hoping you get your favorite,” Fleetstar said, to the amusement of the elders. Rushsong simply directed a throaty growl at all three of them as he carried on, letting them return to their work and gossip, no doubt.

At the fern tunnel, Rushsong didn’t bother with the courtesy of calling to either medicine cat; he simply padded in, shocking Tangletoes out of his fur when he spoke up.

The medicine cat had been sorting herbs, and now there were leaves hooked on all his claws. “Rushsong!” He exclaimed, tail thrashing to and fro. And then, with a touch of iciness as he recalled Rushsong and Fleetstar’s early dismissal of his worries: “What can I do for you?”

“If you or Whitepaw need herbs, I can escort you out,” Rushsong replied gruffly. He pretended to inspect his claws. “I could use a hunt, anyways.”

Tangletoes hesitated.

“Come on, I’m not going to bite your tail off. However angry with me you may be, a medicine cat still needs his herbs.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Tangletoes retorted, standing to shake the herbs from his paws. “I simply mourn for a time when leaders and deputies were more inclined to listen to their medicine cats, is all.”

Rushsong purred and batted a gentle paw at the tabby’s shoulder. “Come on. We can practice your battle moves, too, for when ThunderClan inevitably comes under attack tomorrow.”

“That isn’t funny.” Ears flat, Tangletoes followed Rushsong nonetheless, calling back to Whitepaw as they went: “Get yourself some fresh-kill if there’s any left, Whitepaw. I’m going out to fetch some herbs.”

Outside of camp, the crackling forest beckoned. Rushsong took a long breath, tasting the scents of the air and filling his fur prickle at a whiff of moisture.

“Do you smell that?” He asked Tangletoes.

The medicine cat followed suit in sniffing the hot greenleaf air. “Rain,” he agreed. “Don’t get too flustered, though; it may just be a small drizzle.”

“Anything’s better than this unending heat.” Rushsong padded towards the ravine, letting Tangletoes follow. “All the living prey left in the forest will be out to drink.”

“I pray StarClan wills it,” the medicine cat pled wearily. “I could use some aspen bark. Bluepaw and Ruddypaw have come to me complaining about burnt noses every evening for the past moon.”

“What, will you fashion them little caps for their muzzles?” Rushsong joked.

“Not too far off.” Tangletoes found one of the tall white trees, its leaves long gone brownish-yellow but bark still clear and bright. The tabby swept a paw along its trunk and held his pad up to show Rushsong a powdery white coating. “The dust of aspen bark can protect a cat’s bare skin against the heat of the sun. Come on, put your claws to use and help me strip some.”

Rushsong stood up on his hind paws to rake his claws horizontally across the aspen’s trunk, papery bark curling beneath his paws. “How did the first medicine cats ever learn such things? I can’t imagine it’d be very safe to go around sampling every plant in the forest to find the best cure for bellyache.”

Tangletoes purred, picking up the curls of bark in his paws and stacking them into a neat pile below the birch’s trunk. “These herbal cures have been around since the days of the ancient cat clans,” he replied. “I suppose lions and tigers and leopards had strong enough constitutions to handle nibbling at a little yarrow when they first discovered it.”

Leaving the aspen bark to collect later on, Rushsong let Tangletoes lead him deeper into the territory, waiting as the tabby sniffed at a leaf here, a curly vine there. Tangletoes dug up thick, callused burdock roots; he snipped off poppy heads with his teeth.

“I’ve no qualms crediting StarClan with the healing plants like these can bring,” Tangletoes went on, creating more piles of collected odds and ends, “but I can’t help wondering what makes each herb and berry different as to cure so many different ailments. Water quenches a cat’s thirst, and prey blood fills his belly--but what juices live in yarrow that spur him to be sick?”

“I try not to spend my time wondering at such small things,” Rushsong said, unwilling to admit he’d never tried.

Ignoring him, Tangletoes went on: “I mean--illnesses and ailments come in all different forms, right? Greencough is a sickness of the lungs,” the tabby said, sitting back on his rear to thump a forepaw against his chest, “and starvation is a sickness of the belly. The eyes can get sick, the nose--even the brain, theoretically.”

“Up here?” Rushsong flicked his gaze upwards to indicate the fuzzy top of his head.

“Legend says StarClan’s touch dwells in our heads as much as our hearts,” Tangletoes nodded. “We know a heart is a physical thing that beats, and can be hurt--so why wouldn’t a brain? I believe it’s a body part that can get sick, just like a belly, a lung, a paw.”

Rushsong shook his head, padding past Tangletoes and batting him on the flank with his stumpy tail. “Well, when I catch bellyache of the brain, I’ll be sure to come find you. Let’s see if we can find some prey in the meantime.”

Only Rushsong had any luck, his meager catch yielding a finch that was more feather than meat. The pair shared it in small bites before burying its feathers and bones and plodding on towards the sandy hollow to spar.

“Just so you know, it’s been a while since I’ve practiced my moves. Don’t expect much, uh… grace,” Tangletoes mumbled as they took their places across from one another on the dusty earth.

“Fighting is far from a graceful sport,” Rushsong purred. “Come at me.”

Tangletoes stood up tall to take a deep breath before dropping into an arch-backed crouch and leaping straight at Rushsong. The ginger tom poised to uproot Tangletoes from beneath, but just as he was pushing his paws into the sand to spring, the medicine cat swerved strangely aside, bringing a sheathed paw down on Rushsong’s head. Before the deputy’s spinning vision could clear, that same dextrous foot darted beneath his forepaws, forcing him to stumble an awkward several pawsteps ahead.

“‘Been a while,’ my tail!” Rushsong congratulated the medicine cat, lifting a paw to pat at his crown. “Where’d you learn that one? I’ve never thought to bonk an enemy warrior over the head like a falling tree.”

“I didn’t hit you too hard, did I?” Tangletoes’ concern betrayed glowing pride. “It’s just, uh… further elaboration on my theories. Head injuries--impacts, falls, so on--can completely rewrite or even ruin the development of a kit. Small blows like that won’t cause such drastic damage, but they could, at least, give a cat a bump to remember.”

Rushsong narrowed his eyes, amused. “I’d never imagine a medicine cat could use his training for such violent ends.”

“We herb-sniffers don’t just track where deathberries grow to protect our kits,” Tangletoes winked, making Rushsong laugh.

“Show me what else you herb-sniffers can do."

The deputy fluffed his fur up in a challenge, and Tangletoes charged without hesitation, dancing up onto his hind paws where Rushsong met him, huge forefeet poised to bat at his assailant. The pair scrabbled at one another with soft-pawed blows, teeth bared in kit-like grins.

“Not bad for a badger-tailed mouse brain!” Tangletoes purred.

“You’re not so bad for a moon-gazing goose, yourself,” Rushsong retorted. He jumped from the spar, leaping around to Tangletoes’ backside before the medicine cat could react and clamping his jaw’s around his tabby tail, careful not to let his teeth graze beyond Tangletoes’ fur.

“I thought you told me you weren’t going to bite my tail off, you pest,” Tangletoes laughed, trying to spin.

Rushsong released him, panting. “Being a badger-tail has its benefits.”

They both fell to their haunches, winded. Tangletoes watched Rushsong with clever green eyes, all his typical flightiness and worry forgotten.

But heat still blazed down in the forest; Rushsong felt it all the more after this bout of exercise.

He pulled his gaze from Tangletoes’, standing to shake sand from his pelt. “Come on. Let’s go back and collect those herbs.”

Tangletoes seemed to sense Rushsong’s return to seriousness. He walked with intentional sluggishness, avoiding their flanks pressing together as they wound through the bracken-colored undergrowth. Rushsong’s chest ached with want for his companion’s company, but realities settled in exponentially as they padded on: for as much as Rushsong enjoyed his friendship with ThunderClan’s plucky medicine cat, he was, again, a tomcat--feeding a spark he wasn’t even sure existed would catch no prey, nor yield any kits, as it were. In his youth, Rushsong paid no mind to matters of the heart, wanting nothing more than to match Fleetstar in her ambitions to guide ThunderClan to greatness. And how could he choose to avert his attention now, when the situation in the forest grew more dire by the day?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet u thought i forgot about these stupid evil cats huh

Rushsong reconvened with Fleetstar at the fresh-kill pile later in the day, the hollow hot with the setting sun’s rays. Most of the clan had retreated to their dens early; there was no sense milling about when to take a mere few steps could make a cat pant.

Rushsong and Fleetstar lazed in the long shadow of the stump by the meager pile of prey, flicking their ears and tails to drive away flies.

“I never thought I’d look forward to the horrid cold of the Moonstone tunnel,” Fleetstar murmured, voice muffled by her cheek squished against the hot earth.

Rushsong gave a lazy purr of agreement, glancing over at his leader. She looked even more exhausted than he felt--Nettleflight’s burial must have been difficult in the forest’s dry ground.i9;

Rushsong nodded towards the fresh-kill pile: a dragonfly, three grasshoppers, and a squirrel who must have lost its tail to a close call earlier in the season. “Let’s eat and get some rest. You won’t be able to hunt along the way to Highstones tomorrow, you know.”

Fleetstar’s tail thumped against the earth. “I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense,” Rushsong spat. “We’re all hungry.”

“My belly’s churning. Leave me be, Rushsong; I’m fine,” the she-cat muttered lazily.

Rushsong looked her over--now that he peered a little closer, his leader’s belly was just barely bloated. Where could that have come from but a big meal? No cat had feasted in moons.

Rushsong’s whole pelt thrilled to ginger spikes as the realization battered him like hail.  _ Fleetstar’s expecting kits! _ No wonder she’d been so insistent on Rushsong finding a mate to sire his descendancy earlier; the pair had done everything together, and Rushsong didn’t doubt she’d want to experience parenthood alongside him, too. She’d never shown public interest in any of the toms in ThunderClan, but Rushsong supposed she’d be the sort to raise kits alone, anyhow. Perhaps there was some tom from another clan--Rushsong would never betray his friend’s secrets, but he at least wanted to know for himself.

Regardless, it was clear Fleetstar didn’t want to tell any cat just yet. Rushsong wondered if Tangletoes knew, but nonetheless determined he wouldn’t bring it up to any cat until Fleetstar made her news known. A wave of warmth spread through him: his best friend’s first litter! He couldn’t wait to meet the little scraps; maybe one day he’d even get to mentor one of them.

“Have you spoken with Tangletoes?” He asked, careful not to suggest he’d supposed her secret.

“It’s only a bellyache.” Fleetstar sat up with a grunt, lifting one hind leg to groom her snow-white stomach.

Rushsong couldn’t help purring slightly at the sight. He got to his paws and gave Fleetstar an affectionate bump to the head with his muzzle. “Suit yourself. You’d better be well enough to travel tomorrow, though.”

Fleetstar grunted in acknowledgement. “Tangletoes’ den at dawn. I can’t wait to take a break from these woods.”

Rushsong took one of the grasshoppers and swallowed it in one cripsy gulp as he padded off to the the warriors’ den.

“Rushsong!” A voice from the nursery called. The ginger warrior turned to see Sandkit, the nursery’s sole kit, bounding out after him. Only a month away from being apprenticed, the muted tortoiseshell wasn’t much smaller than a full-grown cat, and it took some squeezing for her to slip out of the den.

“Giving your mother some much-deserved rest?” Rushsong inquired, licking his lips.

“No,” the kit snapped defensively, gray tail thumping against the ground, “but I’m bored, and everybody’s sleeping. It’s still daylight! Take me out hunting, Rushsong, please?”

“You’ve less than a moon ‘till you’re apprenticed. I’ll take you then.” Realizing what he’d said, Rushsong’s fur bristled. “Your mentor. Your  _ mentor  _ will take you then.”

As if in slow motion, Sandkit’s green eyes widened in wonder; her tail curled up in delight.

“Oh, fox dung.”

“I’m going to be apprentice to the clan deputy!” Sandkit whispered with delight. “Does that mean you and Fleetstar want me to follow in your pawsteps? Am I going to be  _ your  _ deputy?”

“I don’t know, just-- _ hush. _ Lower your voice. Fleetstar will have what’s left of my tail if she finds out I told you.”

“My mom’s going to be so proud,” the tortoiseshell kit continued, ignoring him. “Are you going to teach me to fight like you? Bluepaw and Ruddypaw told me all the stories about how you killed a whole fox as an apprentice, and how you and Fleetstar took the old RiverClan leader’s last life as warriors--”

“That’s enough, Sandkit,” Rushsong purred exasperatedly. “I’ll tell you plenty more stories than that when you’re apprenticed. But you ought to get back to the nursery with your mother.”

“But I’m not tired,” Sandkit protested.

“Well, I am.” Rushsong patted a gentle paw on the top of her fuzzy head, padding off to the warriors’ den without turning. “Fleetstar and I are going to Highstones tomorrow. Protect the camp while we’re away.”

Sandkit puffed out her little white chest proudly. “Yes, sir! You can count on me.”

With one last wave of his short tail, Rushsong bid the kit farewell, padded off with heavy paws. Inside the warriors’ den, his clanmates shared tongues, talked quietly to one another, napped. His nest in the center of the thornbush lay empty and beckoning; beside it, Raincloud and Heatherfoot lay murmuring sweetly to one another. They flattened their ears in embarassment when Rushsong approached.

“Those two are only willing to flirt when there’s a deputy’s worth of space between them and the rest of us,” Skystripe, a ginger warrior, muttered. The cats around her purred with laughter.

“Go sleep in the medicine cat’s den and give the lovebirds a little privacy, Rushsong,” Nightsky added.

“If  _ anybody _ wants privacy, they’d better be willing to go sleep in the dirtplace,” Rushsong muttered back, much to the amusement of his clanmates. “I haven’t even left for Highstones yet and I already feel as though I’ve scaled a mountain.”

“You look it, too,” Turtletooth chided from her nest on the other side of the thornbush’s trunk. “Will some cat give our poor deputy a good grooming? He makes us all look bad.”

“Eat worms, Turtletooth,” Rushsong snapped. Nonetheless, he yielded with a reluctant purr to Flamespring’s doting tongue drawing over his ears and the top of his head. He swiftly fell into a deep sleep beneath his warrior’s care, surrounded by the comfortable warmth of cat breath to contrast the dry, blazing evening heat outside. When the deputy’s eyes fluttered drowsily open, he was overwhelmed with pleasure to find his fur tickled by a frosty breeze and the shimmer of starlight.

Rushsong was at Sunningrocks. River water--more than he’d seen in moons--crashed melodically along the stony shore; stars glittered beneath the icy froth.

_ I’m going to suck that up like a tick on a badger!  _ The deputy thought triumphantly, leaping over the rocks towards the riverbank. But before he could plunge his face into the water, his way was blocked by a cat he hadn’t scented, standing imposingly in his way. Rushsong doubled back, bristling, before he recognized the starlit tom blocking his path to the river.

“Poppystar!”

Once a jet-black tom, Fleetstar’s predecessor now shone bright with the ethereal light of StarClan.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Tell me you’ve come to herald an end to this drought, Poppystar,” Rushsong breathed, dipping his head. “The pressure on Fleetstar and I grows heavier every dawn. We’ve had to kill ThunderClan’s kits just to save them from starving to death. And Fleetstar--”

Rushsong paused, sighed. Surely there wasn’t any harm in confiding in a StarClan cat!

“Fleetstar’s belly is starting to swell. If this famine doesn’t pass soon, she won’t be able to feed more than one, maybe two of her kits when they’re born.”

Poppystar’s wise blue gaze fell coldly on Rushsong, chasing a shiver up his spine.

“Inside Fleetstar’s belly is a greater evil than the forest has ever seen, Rushsong. Be watchful.”

The deputy’s mouth hung open. “You can’t mean--one of those unborn kits is already prophesized for evil? Surely we’ll have plenty of opportunities to thwart its destiny between now and then!”

Poppystar shook his head. “It is not a prophecy, nor destiny. It’s merely a fact.” Once again, his bitter gaze fell on Rushsong. Once so gentle and diplomatic, Rushsong hardly recognized this version of his old leader. “We’re too late to prevent it. But you might be able to stop it, at least.”

“I don’t understand,” Rushsong pled, but the black tom was already dissipating into the icy night air of his dream. “You have to be able to tell me more, Poppystar! I’m not a medicine cat; I don’t interpret signs! Come back!”

But it was too late; the ginger deputy awoke with a start and gasp in his brittle nest in the ThunderClan warriors’ den, claws instinctively flexed. He glanced around; none of his clanmates seemed to have awoken.

A mere streak of gray dawn light filtered dimly into the thornbush; the day was already muggy and uncomfortable. The air still carried its scent of rain, though--looking forward to possibly catching some of those sweet drops sent down by SkyClan forced Rushsong to rise from his nest and creep out of the warriors’ den. He pushed his dream from his mind: whatever Poppystar’s warning, there wasn’t a threat until Fleetstar kitted. Until then, Rushsong could weigh his options and put his focus into keeping his clan strong.

Fleetstar’s lithe frame sat, foggied by the damp air, before the medicine cats’ fern tunnel. Rushsong padded up and greeted his leader in a soft mew; she touched her nose to his ear, excitement quivering on her pelt.

“Here’s hoping WindClan sends its dawn patrol out late this morning,” Rushsong purred. “I want to race across the moors.”

“Just like we did on our first trip to Highstones as apprentices,” Fleetstar agreed. “Poppystar practically had our whiskers for that.”

“Flytail and Boulderbreeze were mortified,” Rushsong chuckled, though he felt as if a small stone were churning in the tide of his gut. Fleetstar’s mention of Poppystar couldn’t have been more than a coincidence, but Rushsong found himself hoping she’d shared his dream. How much easier things would be if he didn’t have to worry about bringing up Poppystar’s message on his own!

_ Perhaps she’ll mention it on the way to Highstones, when we’ve got some privacy. _

A delicate  _ mrrow _ of greeting turned Rushsong and Fleetstar’s attention to the fern tunnel, rustled by Tangletoes and Whitepaw’s approach. Tangletoes carried a small bundle of herbs in his jaws, and he placed it at Rushsong’s paws, watching approvingly as Rushsong gulped the bitter mixture down.

“I always forget you’re not allowed to eat before communing with StarClan,” Rushsong murmured apologetically, glancing at Fleetstar as he licked his chops. “Seems more unfair now than ever.”

“I’ll be alright,” the brown-and-white she-cat assured him.

“StarClan be with you both,” Tangletoes muttered to them, a hint of resent in his meow. “Come back as quickly as you can, and rest up before moonrise.”

“Yes, Tangletoes, and we’ll eat all our prey and be sure to wash behind our ears, too,” Fleetstar mocked her brother. Rushsong caught Whitepaw stifling laughter at the leader’s sarcasm. The she-cat leaned in to touch noses with her medicine cat. “Make sure every cat is well-fed while we’re away.”

Tangletoes looked down at his claws, nodding.

_ I suppose he’s never taken to his sister’s dark humor, _ Rushsong thought.

Fleetstar led him through the forest at a swift, impatient pace. Neither cat spoke as they pushed through brittle ferns and over crunching bracken, nor did they pause to drink at the pathetic mud puddles that had once formed the creek by Fourtrees. Only once the pair had broken through the woods and out onto the misty moor did Fleetstar stop, take a deep breath, and let out a long sigh.

“Glad to be free of the pressures of clan life for a while?” Rushsong guessed.

“I feel ashamed to admit it,” Fleetstar admitted, fixing her green eyes on him, “but yes.”

Rushsong raised a paw and nudged it kindly against his friend’s shoulder. “Remember how excited you were when Poppystar made you deputy after Honeythroat?”

“There wasn’t a famine on then, if you’ll recall,” Fleetstar snorted.

“Still. Becoming leader was your dream from our first day in the nursery together, and I always knew I’d be your deputy.”

Fleetstar set off at a brisk, but temperate pace into the long grasses of the moor. Turning over one shoulder as Rushsong followed, she asked, “did you never see me as a rival? You and I were perfectly matched in skill, and I don’t doubt Poppystar considered you for his deputy, too.”

Rushsong shook his head. “It didn’t matter to me. All I knew was that you and I would be loyal to each other ‘till the last; whether I was Rushstar and you, Fleetbranch, wouldn’t change that we’re stronger together than we are apart.”

Fleetstar’s gaze filled with fondness, and then something like--was that regret?

Rushsong bounded up to her side.

“You know you can tell me anything, Fleetstar,” he reminded her.  _ Let her take the hint, great StarClan! _

“But I can’t,” Fleetstar pled back swiftly. “I couldn’t tell you about my leader ceremony. I won’t be able to tell you what StarClan says tonight at the Moonstone.” Fleetstar looked down at her paws, steadily pacing ahead. “Whether or not you’ll let yourself believe it, Rushsong, my being leader has changed our friendship, just as it’s changed us as individuals.”

Rushsong said nothing. It was becoming clearer and clearer, he thought, that the sire of Fleetstar’s kits was not a ThunderClan tom. It made his fur bristle with unhappiness to think that she didn’t trust him with that secret--did she really think he’d care?

“Maybe so,” the ginger tom mewed after a long moment of walking in silence, “but it certainly hasn’t changed the fact that I could beat you to the old badger sett by a foxlength.”

Fleetstar’s eyes glimmered with humor. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

“Try me.”

In a heartbeat, their paws thundered against the dry earth, grass whistling in their ears. Neither had the speed of a WindClan warrior, but Fleetstar’s narrow limbs--unburdened even by her full belly--carried her well past Rushsong no matter how hard he threw himself to speed. As they raced, the clouds finally broke open to release a weak drizzle onto their hot fur. Rushsong gave up trying to beat his leader and simply cantered forth with an open mouth tipped to the sky, catching sparse, warm drops on his tongue. Mouse bile could have been falling from the sky, and he’d still have drunk it gratefully.

A sour scent hit the roof of his mouth; Rushsong skidded to a stop.

_ WindClan cats! _

“Fleetstar!” he called to his leader, still running ahead. “Come quick! I smell--”

“Smell what? The WindClan dawn patrol, maybe?” a hostile voice hissed from the slope of the moor Rushsong had halted on. “What on earth could have chased the ThunderClan leader and deputy out of their territory at this time of day?”


End file.
